


Resistance

by junkster



Category: Take That
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-30
Updated: 2011-04-30
Packaged: 2017-10-18 20:10:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/192810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/junkster/pseuds/junkster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jason steps in when he realises Howard's suffering in silence with 'flu.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Resistance

There’s a point towards the end of the show where Jason thinks Howard might be about to collapse, right in the middle of ‘Pray’. As they slide past each other to swap microphones, he can hear gasping, rasping breaths, even over the band and the audience, and he never usually hears Howard even remotely out of puff.

He keeps dancing, keeps singing, even though his attention is now totally tuned into Howard, who, on closer inspection, is sweating buckets and clearly struggling.

They knew he was under the weather - he’d said so himself the day before, grousing about an ache in his back and generally looking tired - but he hadn’t looked anything other than slightly pale before going onstage, and that could always be put down to stage fright.

Jason keeps an eye on him as they step up to sing, and hears his usually pitch perfect voice break on the harmonies.

 

\+ + + + +

 

There’s a moment in the stark, grey concrete corridor where they have a chance to pause, waiting for the cars to reverse in close to the rear entrance, and Howard backs up against the wall and slides down to the floor, legs folding underneath him like a newborn deer learning to walk. He’s as white as a sheet and still dragging in those scarily ragged breaths, his chest sounding as though he’s drowning inside. Jason crouches next to him and presses a hand to his forehead, feeling intense heat and frowning worriedly as he tucks his dreads out of his face, back behind his ears.

“Can you make it to the car?” he asks over the noise of the general melee, and hopes to god it’s a stupid question. If Howard can’t get up and walk ten metres then they’re in serious trouble.

 

\+ + + + +

 

He’s meant to be sharing a car with Mark, and Robbie with Howard, but a quick word in Mark’s ear and they’re swapping, Mark glancing worriedly over at Howard even as security pushes him down into the back seat. From the car behind, Jason sees him say something to Robbie, and then the two of them are turning around, looking out through the rear window of their car. There’s no time for them to catch a glimpse of Howard, though, as they drive off into the night.

Jason doesn’t even notice the fans who pound on the windows as they pull away from the arena, his whole attention focused on the shivering wreck sat next to him. Howard’s gone from flames to ice, his hands pulling the towel around his shoulders tighter around himself, his body wracked with uncontrollable tremors. Jason wants nothing more than to reach out and grab him, but he knows they’re only minutes away from the hotel, where he’ll be able to do it out of sight of prying eyes. Instead, he curls a hand around the back of Howard’s neck and watches as rain spatters suddenly and loudly against the window.

From the arena to the car to the hotel, Howard is silent, which is completely, utterly wrong. Jason has to prop him up against the wall as he fumbles with their room key, then lead him in with an arm around his waist. He wastes no time in locking the door and dimming the lights, acutely aware of the way Howard squints at the brightness, his head and eyes clearly aching.

He submits from sheer exhaustion as Jason strips him, his limbs weak and limp, his heart still thudding too quickly.

“Don’t like being ill in front of people,” he mutters as Jason helps him into the bathroom, where he grips the edge of the sink and looks at his pale reflection with a distant expression.

“I know,” Jason says soothingly, turning on the shower and shrugging out of his t-shirt. “But I don’t want you falling over and cracking your head open on the toilet, do I?”

Howard’s shoulders drop as he turns away from himself, and utters quietly: “What a way to go.”

 

\+ + + + +

 

They lean against each other in the shower, letting the hot water and steam ease the rattle in Howard’s chest as Jason runs his hands slowly over aching muscles and skin that alternately burns and prickles with goose bumps. Howard is too exhausted to do little more than rest his chin on Jason’s shoulder and let out a quiet sound of relief at the gentle touch.

“Sorry,” he murmurs against Jason’s skin, his arms loosely draped around Jason’s waist.

Jason’s not exactly sure what he’s referring to, but replies vehemently: “Nothing to be sorry for. You got through it. You were amazing.”

Howard makes a muffled sound of protest. “You must be tired.”

Jason shakes his head. “Never too tired for you, mate,” he says softly.

 

\+ + + + +

 

Towel dried and wearing a pair of jogging bottoms, Howard slumps on the bed and swallows down two aspirin and some water with worrying familiarity, grimacing slightly at the taste. He brings the glass up to his head, pressing the cold, wet surface against his temple and closing his eyes. Jason sees this as he returns from the bathroom, insides twisting a little at the suffering he feels he can’t do anything about. Reaching out, he pries the glass gently from Howard’s grip and, as exhausted, temperature-hazy blue eyes open to look up at him, he presses a hand to his shoulder to urge him to lie back.

As he does so, he curls slightly in on himself and that twist inside Jason tightens even more. He reaches out with the cold, damp flannel he’s brought from the bathroom and lays it, folded, across Howard’s forehead. Those eyes flicker shut again and there’s a brief relaxation of his expression that eases Jason’s tension somewhat, the relief almost overwhelming.

Perching on the edge of the mattress, he sits and watches the steady rise and fall of Howard’s chest, so glad that he can no longer hear the wet rattle that had disturbed him so much earlier.

“How d’you feel now?” he asks quietly, laying his hand on Howard’s sternum and rubbing a slow circle. “You should’ve said something, you know. None of us realised how bad you were.”

“I didn’t want to let anyone down,” Howard says, rough but lucid.

“You’re a big idiot.”

Howard’s mouth quirks, a slight, crooked smile. “Thanks, Jay.”

It’s one of those ‘thanks’ that means a million things, and Jason finds himself smiling too, reaching out to turn the cloth over to the cooler side.

“Suffering for your art, eh?”

Howard hums something unintelligible, head turning towards Jason’s touch as he mumbles: “Think I’m dying.”

“Not yet, old man. Still a few years in you yet,” Jason reassures him. He makes to stand up and one of Howard’s hands grabs his wrist.

“Don’t,” he rasps softly.

Sitting back down, Jason looks at the clutching fingers with fond affection. “Was just going to get you another cloth, is all. Anyway, I thought you didn’t like people seeing you ill?”

Howard makes a quiet sound of dismissal. “It’s you. You’re different.”

“Why, don’t I matter?”

Howard smiles that barely-there smile again at the teasing tone and shoots back: “You matter most.”

“That’ll be the temperature making you delirious.”

There’s no answer this time, but the hand around Jason’s wrist tugs weakly and he’s unable to do anything but succumb, resistance already in bits from Howard’s three little words.

He probably wouldn’t have had much sleep anyway, he reasons, moving to lie down by Howard’s side, that hand reconnecting with his arm as soon as he’s settled. They’ve got two days off now, and it’s not like sleep’s a natural thing for him on the best of days.

Turning over onto his side, he hooks an arm around Howard’s hips and settles in for a night of watching and guarding, trying to ignore the warm feeling at the fact that he’s the one who’s allowed to do it.


End file.
